Delgado had placed on the same screen, off to the side, a photo of Eugene Clement. She and Bourque did not necessarily have a reason to believe it was Clement who’d come to see Otto at his place of work, but it was a starting point.
“I just don’t know,” said Bourque, who had wheeled his office chair around to the other side so he could sit shoulder to shoulder with his partner and stare at the screen. “It could be him, but then again, it could be just about anybody.”
“Clement and this guy are about six feet, but so are half the men in the world, so that’s no help. And they both have gray hair. But …”
“What do you see?”
“I’m just looking at our mystery man’s hair. It seems … off.”
Bourque leaned in closer. “Off, as in … ?”
“Kilter. It doesn’t look natural. I think it’s a rug.”
Bourque nodded. “Maybe. So … it’s part of a disguise? He doesn’t want people to recognize him?”
“Or he’s just vain,” Delgado said. “Let’s go back to the tag.” She zoomed in on the back of the sedan. That part of the car was in shadow, and the color of the license plate was difficult to determine. Plus, it was nearly 50 percent obscured by the used Mustang, in the foreground of the picture, that the elevator technician had been thinking about buying. Immediately to the right of the plate was a scratch in the paint where the bumper had been dented.
All they could make out were the last two numbers of the plate: 13. Even those numbers were somewhat blurry. The plate could be a New York State one. Below the numbers were what appeared to be the letters TATE. Most New York plates had the words “Empire State” across the bottom. But then again, most New Jersey plates said “Garden State” in the same place. And Connecticut plates featured the words “Constitution State” along the bottom edge. Rhode Island had “Ocean State.”
Most New York plates were an orangey yellow, but some were white with blue numbers, and others were blue with orange numbers. New Jersey plates came in yellow, or blue, or white.
What proved more helpful were the words across the top of the plate. Jerry pointed to the screen. “Looks like an R and K there.” The last two letters in New York.
“Yeah. So it’s a New York plate. That narrows it down to only a few million,” Delgado said.
Bourque pointed. “What is that?”
“What is what?”
He put his finger directly on the screen.
“Do you mind?” Delgado said, brushing his hand away. “You’re gonna leave a smudge. You’re as bad as my kid.”
“Just look,” he said, pulling his finger back half an inch.
Delgado leaned in, her nose only four inches from the screen. Bourque was pointing to a small sticker of some kind on the bumper, just below the plate.
“I can’t tell what it is,” she said.
It was not the size of a traditional, rectangular bumper sticker people put on their cars to advertise where they’d gone on vacation, or who they were supporting politically. This sticker was round, and about the size of a paper coaster, if not slightly smaller.
“It looks like it’s got letters on it,” he said.
“Yeah. Maybe three. Reminds me a little of a New York Yankees logo. You know? With the N and the Y on top of each other, except here they look separated.”
“So it’s an N, and a Y, and what’s the third letter?” Bourque asked.
“Maybe a C?” She shook her head. “It’s just going to get fuzzier if I blow it up any more.”
“Hang on,” Bourque said slowly. “I think I’ve seen this before but I’m not sure where. I just have to think …”
He got up out of his chair and rounded the desks until he was back in front of his own computer.
“Want your chair?” Delgado asked, watching as her partner leaned over to tap away on the keys.
“No, it’s okay,” he said. He squinted at his screen and muttered to himself, “Okay, yes, yes, okay.”
“What is it?” Delgado asked.
“Give me a sec. I’m printing it out.”
“Printing what out?”
A few steps away, a printer started to hum, and seconds later a piece of paper dropped into the tray. Bourque walked over, retrieved it, then sat back down in the chair next to Delgado.
He held the sheet of paper in front of her. “What do you think?”
He had printed out a picture of a logo with the letters NYG grouped artistically together.
“Pretty,” she said. “What is it?”
“Remember how Headley’s been going on about making this a more livable city?”
“Yeah, well, that’s really going well,” she said. “So long as you like stairs.”
“It was all part of his campaign. Reducing greenhouse gases, that kind of shit. He’s been doing a big push about making all city cars environmentally friendly. Either making them all electric, or at least hybrid. Part gas engine, part electric.”
“Okay,” Delgado said.
“He kicked it off with his so-called New York Green initiative. They made up these stickers.”
“So … this is a city car,” Delgado said slowly.
Bourque nodded. “Yeah.”
“Well, then maybe this is a dead end,” she said. “I mean, it makes sense that someone from the city, like the building department, the one that looks after elevators, might come by and see the folks at the good ol’ elevator repair shop.”
“Yeah, but then why wouldn’t they talk to the boss? To what’s-his-name, Gunther Willem. And supposedly Otto never mentioned this guy he went out to talk to. According to Willem, Otto didn’t say a word about what his visitor wanted. Why wouldn’t he want to reveal a conversation he had with someone from the City?”
Delgado took her face away from the screen and leaned back into her chair.
“That’s a good question,” she said.
“So all we have to do,” Bourque said, “is find an environmentally friendly sedan that belongs to the City, with a plate ending in 13, and a scratch in the bumper right there, and find out who signed it out on this day.”
“Well,” Delgado said, “how hard could that be?”
Fifty-Two
Once she’d managed to hail a cab and was safely ensconced in the backseat, Barbara started making calls on her cell. Her first was to the mayor’s office, but she couldn’t get through. When the line wasn’t busy, it rang endlessly.
Not surprising. Given the kind of day it had been, Headley and his team might well have adopted a bunker mentality. Hole up, wait for things to blow over. So far, the fallout from the mass elevator shutdown was not good. At least eight dead. Six of those were possible heart attacks, two were stairway falls.
There were probably a hundred media inquiries per minute coming in to City Hall. The city’s ability to deal with incoming requests for information and interviews had probably already collapsed.
But heading south in a cab, Barbara was struck by how calm—almost convivial—things were. Manhattan sidewalks were always thronged with people moving hurriedly from place to place, and, not surprisingly, given that going upstairs was suddenly a pain in the ass, they were more packed than usual. But people were hardly running about, panicked. Not many of them were even putting one foot ahead of the other. They were standing around, leaning up against buildings and lampposts, chatting with each other, laughing. Every café, bar, and restaurant with outdoor seating was overflowing with people making the best of an emergency.
Can’t get up to your apartment? Might as well have a drink till they give the all clear.
Fuckin’ New Yorkers, Barbara thought. It doesn’t matter what you throw at us. We just carry on.
She threw a twenty at the driver and leapt out of the cab two blocks from City Hall. She ran the rest of the way.
She had always loved this part of Manhattan. The park and fountain south of the city’s seat of government. People playing chess, kids on school tours, the nearby stands selling New York souven
irs and trinkets and hot dogs and pretzels. Tourists heading off to cross the Brooklyn Bridge on foot.
But Barbara didn’t really see any of this now. She had her mind on one thing and one thing only: telling Richard Headley that he, and his supporters, were what linked the elevator incidents.
As she reached the gate to get onto the City Hall grounds, her way was blocked by a uniformed officer. She’d been through this security checkpoint so many times that often she was waved through without flashing her media credentials.
This time, the cop on duty wouldn’t let her through. He said, “Hold it right there.”
“I need to talk to the mayor,” Barbara said.
The cop smirked. “Oh, well, sure. Head right up. I’m sure he’s free.” But he did not let her pass.
“No, seriously,” she said. She dug into her purse and handed him her credentials. “I go in there all the time. Come on, you know me. Right? You haven’t seen me go through here a hundred times?”
“I still have to check your ID and confirm that you’re legit. Threat level’s been raised, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Barbara sighed, turned around in a gesture of frustration.
Something caught her eye.
Two people heading down the sidewalk. A man and a woman. The woman, at least from where Barbara stood, looked a lot like Arla, and the man had more than a passing resemblance to the mayor’s son.
“Shit,” she said.
“Huh?” the cop said.
Barbara spun back around. “Nothing.”
He handed back her credentials. “Go on in.”
Barbara ran into the building, cleared further checkpoints, and headed to the mayor’s office, where she encountered even more security.
“Please,” she said to the female guard. “I need to see him.”
“You’re gonna have to deal with the media liaison department if you—”
The door to the mayor’s office opened. Valerie Langdon emerged.
“Valerie!” Barbara shouted. She quickly followed that with, “Ms. Langdon!” She and the mayor’s assistant had never been on a first-name basis.
Valerie turned, saw who it was, and hesitated.
“It’s important,” Barbara said.
Valerie approached. “What do you want?”
“I need to talk to him.”
“You and every other reporter between here and California,” she said.
Barbara took two seconds to compose herself. “I think I know why,” she said.
Valerie’s head tilted to one side. “Why what?”
“Why it’s happening.”
“Tell me.”
“I think it’s about him,” she said.
“Say again?”
“I think the elevator incidents are about the mayor.”
“That’s insane.”
“Maybe,” Barbara said. “But I want to bounce something off him.” Valerie took ten seconds to make up her mind. “Come with me,” she said.
Valerie made Barbara wait outside the door to the mayor’s office. She reappeared less than a minute later.
“He’ll see you,” she said, a hint of surprise in her voice.
Valerie did not follow Barbara into the office. The mayor was leaning up against his desk, watching the TV on mute.
“Close the door,” he said.
Barbara closed the door.
“Have a seat,” he said.
Barbara took a spot on the couch and Headley sat in a chair opposite her. He slapped his palms on top of his thighs and leaned forward. “So, what’s this important thing you want to tell me?”
“There’s a common thread to the elevator events,” Barbara said.
“I know,” the mayor said, shrugging. “Similarities in … technique.”
“I’m not talking about the cameras.”
Headley’s eyebrows went up. “So you know about that.”
She nodded. “I’m not talking about how it was done. I think I know why it might have been done.”
Headley leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, as if daring her to impress him. “Shoot.”
“I think it’s about you.”
A long pause. Then, “Go on.”
“All three buildings are either owned, or occupied, by major supporters of your campaign. Especially the one this morning. The Gormley Building.”
“I don’t know anyone named Gormley.”
“Maybe not, but you do know Arnett Steel. He lives in the penthouse.”
Headley said nothing.
“And the Sycamores, that was where—”
“I know,” he said. “Margaret Cambridge.”
“I think someone is sending a message to you, and those who’ve enabled you,” Barbara said. “I think this … I think this is about revenge.”
Headley slowly shook his head. “Your theory seems … thin.”
“Do you have a better one?” Barbara asked.
“Several leads are being followed. An alt-right domestic terror group could be behind this. That theory is already out there. It strikes me as the most credible one. My guess is you’d just love for these events to have something to do with me. It’d fit the narrative you’ve set forth.”
“That’s not true,” Barbara said. “I’m not here as a reporter. I’m—okay, that’s bullshit. I am here as a reporter. But I want to see whoever’s doing this caught just as much as you do. I want this to end.” She paused. “I watched Paula Chatsworth die. This isn’t just another story for me.”
“It’s personal,” the mayor said.
Barbara nodded.
“Personal in more ways than one,” Headley said with a sly smile.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” He smiled. “Were you surprised when I so readily agreed to see you?”
“Um, maybe a little.”
“I had Valerie show you in because I wanted to congratulate you.”
“For?”
“Your audacity. The genius of it. Planting someone right here at City Hall. Getting someone on the inside. I have to hand it to you.” He suddenly got up, went back to his desk, shuffled some papers, trying to find something. “It’s here somewhere,” he said. “I asked for the file. On new hires.”
Arla.
“Doesn’t matter,” Headley said, abandoning the search and heading for the door, getting ready to show her out. “I’ll find it later. But I’ve been informed that you have a member of your family working for us. Am I right about that?”
Barbara nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“Your daughter?”
“Yes. But it’s not what you think. She did it entirely on her own. If you want to know the truth—”
“That’d be a twist.”
“If you want to know the truth, I think she took the job, in part, just to get under my skin. She knew that working for your administration would not go over well with me. Our relationship is … complicated. But she got the job because she’s good at what she does. She deserves it.”
“So you say,” Headley said. “Forgive me for being skeptical. Anyway, whatever game you and your daughter may or may not be playing here, it’s over. As is her employment with the City of New York.”
He opened the door, inviting her to leave. But instead of walking out, Barbara went to his desk and grabbed the sheaf of papers he’d been going through.
“Hey!” the mayor said. “Don’t touch my—”
She quickly found what she was looking for. She waved one sheet in the air and scattered the rest onto his desk. “You were hunting for this. My daughter’s job application.”
“I hadn’t had a chance to read it yet. But I know what I need to know.”
“Do you? Do you know her name?”
The mayor shrugged. A no.
“Arla,” Barbara said, heading for the door. She slapped the sheet of paper against Headley’s chest as she passed him. “Arla Silbert.”
She met Headley’s eyes for a fraction of a se
cond as she walked out.
Fifty-Three
Barbara had her head down as she walked briskly away from the mayor’s office, but not, as was most often the case, because she was looking at her phone. Her head was down because she did not want anyone to see her cry.
If it had not been for the tears blurring her vision, she might have seen Chris Vallins instead of running right into him.
“Sorry,” she blurted, and looked up. “Oh, shit.”
“Jesus,” he said, seeing the tears. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” she said, trying to steer around him. But this time, it was his turn to hold her by the arm and steer her toward the closest door.
It wasn’t a ladies’ room this time, or a men’s. He ushered her into a conference room that was outfitted with one rectangular table and about a dozen wheeled office chairs.
“Talk to me,” he said, putting her into one of them. He took another one and wheeled it around so he was facing her, knees touching.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Barbara said. “I’m fine.”
She dug into her purse for a tissue and dabbed her eyes.
“You were in talking to Headley?”
She nodded.
“About?”
Barbara swallowed, sniffed. “He’s the link. Wherever an elevator’s gone down, it’s been a building with a major political donor. To his campaign. I think that’s what this is about.”
Vallins said, “Whoa.”
Another sniff. She went into her bag for another tissue and blew her noise.
“What did the mayor say?”
“He dismissed it,” she said.
Vallins leaned in close, his head nearly touching hers. He saw a tear running down her cheek and caught it with his finger.
“That’s why you’re crying?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s … I think everything’s about to unravel.”
“What do you mean?”
Barbara raised her chin, looked into Vallins’s eyes. “I don’t know what to make of you. You work for that asshole, but there are times when you seem like maybe you’ve got an actual conscience.”
He smiled. “I don’t know about that.” He paused. “I … sometimes I have to play both sides.”
“That sounds like the shortest definition ever of ‘politics,’” Barbara said.
Elevator Pitch (UK) Page 28
